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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581805">i once kneeled in shaking thrill (i chase the memory of it still)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlyburning/pseuds/brightlyburning'>brightlyburning</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Three Houses Kink Meme Fills [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Cock &amp; Ball Torture, Cunnilingus, Dom My Unit | Byleth, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Gentle Dom, Light Bondage, Romance, Spanking, Sub Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:54:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581805</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlyburning/pseuds/brightlyburning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Byleth pushes the cloth aside and steps into the blue darkness of the tent, lit only by pale light filtering in through the fine muslin of the roof panels. The cool air eases the sunburn across the back of her neck, the faint scent of metal and sweat clearing the stench of battle from her nose. </p><p>Dimitri, kneeling on the floor beside the cot, lifts his head, blinking in the sudden light. His hair's loose, tangled, and sweat's drawn rivulets of pale skin through the smoke staining his face. His gaze is wide and black, and it settles upon her for only a moment before falling to where his gauntlets, crusted in gore, rest on his knees. A wooden box with a gleaming metal lock sits on the bed beside him.</p><p>(A kink meme fill for the prompt, 'Dimitri/Byleth dom/sub, as gentle or as strict as you like. Just let Dimitri be a good boy for his beloved like he so clearly wants.')</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Three Houses Kink Meme Fills [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777993</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>177</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i once kneeled in shaking thrill (i chase the memory of it still)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Byleth reins in her mount as Dedue rides up beside her. Behind him, the smoldering wreckage of the battlefield - corpses of the imperial remnant, horses, wyverns, armor and torn flags - spreads toward the horizon. Blood washes downstream in curling pennants of red across the water's surface. </p><p>"His Majesty has need of you," Dedue says, tilting his head towards the king's tent, set back in the shadows of the forest. "It was a difficult battle."</p><p>"How so?" She urges her horse towards Dimitri's tent, but pauses for a moment to check in with Sylvain; he can handle the cleanup in their section, good. "The enemy routed quickly in our area. Not in yours?"</p><p>"They held a long time." Dedue grimaces. "His Majesty led from the front, and it was, at times, all I could do to keep up with him." </p><p>Ah. That explains part of it; for all Dimitri's horror of warfare, he refuses to let others take the burden for him. Worse, he's good at battle, in a way few are - viciously strong, his authority immutable, his bloodlust terrifying - and can't let his talent go unused, not when it would mean others would suffer.</p><p>"Also," and here Dedue eases his mount in beside her, their thighs nearly brushing as they cross into the shade of the trees, "when they saw they had lost, they brought in explosives."</p><p>Blood and fire, exactly what Dimitri needs least. The voices swarm after such engagements. </p><p>Smoke stings at her eyes when she closes them on a sigh. Her body's gone leaden, and there is no small part of her that wishes for nothing more than a hot bath, several good meals, Dimitri's arms about her- </p><p>But she loves him, can be nothing less than what he needs: a firm support, a guide, a friend. How can she be anything else, when he has been the same to her? She came to Garreg Mach alone and separate, cut off from everything but war, and he offered her a place among the world.</p><p>She glances aside at Dedue and straightens, settling her hand on the pommel of her saddle as they come to the open space before the tent. "I'll handle it, Dedue. Would you water my horse?"</p><p>"Of course." Dedue nods, pleased to be asked; likely he views this as the most he can do for Dimitri now.</p><p>Byleth hands him the reins and dismounts, sword in hand. Her thighs ache, the insides raw; this is exactly why she prefers not to ride, beside most animals being frightened of her. Her hand trembles with fatigue when she lifts it to wave Dedue on before turning towards the tent. It's simple blue cloth, both of its inhabitants preferring utility over ostentation, and her shoulders loosen when she steps toward the closest thing to home she's known.</p><p>She pauses at the threshold, lifting a hand to the opening, and calls, "Dimitri?" Best not to surprise him in such a state. </p><p>The faint sound of someone shifting within, before he says, "Come in."</p><p>She pushes the cloth aside and steps into the blue darkness of the tent, lit only by pale light filtering in through the fine muslin of the roof panels. The cool air eases the sunburn across the back of her neck, the faint scent of metal and sweat clearing the stench of blood and pain from her nose. </p><p>Dimitri, kneeling on the floor beside the cot, lifts his head, blinking in the sudden light. His hair's loose, tangled, and sweat's drawn rivulets of pale skin through the smoke staining his face. His gaze is wide and black, and it settles upon her for only a moment before falling to where his gauntlets, crusted in gore, rest on his knees. A wooden box with a gleaming metal lock sits on the bed beside him.</p><p>Byleth crosses the space between them to stand before Dimitri. This close, a fine tremble works beneath his skin, veins beating blue and frantic in the pale hollow beneath his eye, and he smells of smoke, sweat, blood. Hers, even now, drawn thin and weary by the demands of war, and a fierce surge of protective tenderness curls about her spine. She reaches down to push her fingers into his damp hair, pull him forward to rest his furrowed brow against her belly, and he comes gladly.</p><p>The part of her that once was Sothis, a dragon reborn, lashes its tail in greedy adoration. She pulls out her necklace from beneath her armor with the other hand, places it and the attached key atop the box.</p><p>"Get clean, take care of the armor, and then get your collar."</p><p>The grateful hitch of his breath could break her heart.</p><p>After Dimitri takes his turn at the washbasin, they move around each other in silence, the routine familiar as a weapon in the hand, coming together to undo latches on each other's armor, catch cuirasses and gauntlets as they fall to set them aside on their stands. Their armor's come through the battle intact, the damage cosmetic; Dimitri sets himself to wiping them clean, his motions carefully controlled to hide how he wants to rush, while Byleth perches on one of their stools, Areadbhar propped across her knees. Thankfully the camp staff have left full waterskins for them to drink while they work, and Byleth almost drains one to the dregs.</p><p>Dimitri's wound tense, even now; his gaze flickers towards empty corners of the tent, and his shoulders hunch beneath the linen of his tunic. His mouth works as if to say something, but he shakes his head, growls beneath his breath. He's reluctant to speak to his voices around Byleth, even though she's told him she wants him to do whatever brings him peace, and she doesn't press the issue.</p><p>"Oil?" Byleth asks, and Dimitri, inspecting a loose rivet on her gorget with a frown, tosses her the vial and a cloth. Relic weapons are fragile, take special handling and maintenance, and both of them rely too heavily on their blades to leave them untended. She brushes Areadbhar and the Sword clean of the worst of it, picks the flaked blood out of the grooves, wipes them until the bone shines pale cream, and then coats them with oil before sheathing them both.</p><p>Dimitri turns toward the box on the bed, and Byleth, standing over the washbasin, nods. "Go ahead. Pick your collar. Take anything you don't want me to use out of the box, then strip." Short commands are best, especially now. </p><p>While he gets ready behind her, various things clinking, she pulls off her tunic and breastband with a groan, every part of her sore. Her boots she kicks into the corner, then peels off her leggings and underwear. It's hard to believe her clothes aren't a lost cause, stained with sweat, patches worn thin with the relentless friction of armor, but a good lye soap cures most ills. </p><p>She tosses them aside in the hamper, then wets a cloth in the basin, drags it over her eyes, itching with smoke, the friction-burned tops of her shoulders, down between her breasts, her underarms. When she blinks open her eyes, lashes wet, to glance in the mirror, Dimitri's knelt back beside the bed, his back an expanse of pale scarred skin in the reflection. He's put his clothes in the hamper and put the open box beside him; remembered her expectations, the good boy he is.</p><p>Best begin, then. </p><p>A quick dig through her rucksack nets her a worn and soft pair of trousers and blouse to slip into. The camp staff are inexplicably irritated by her refusal to let them pack and take care of her campaign gear, but she's been doing it her way as long as she can remember. </p><p>Her bare feet sink into the carpet when she steps toward Dimitri, circles to stand before him. He doesn't move as she enters his sight, and his stillness lets her admire him. He's gorgeous naked, his posture perfect where he rests on his heels, his head bowed, golden hair falling over his face. His shoulders rise and fall with even breaths, some of the tension slipped from his frame, and his hands curl lightly about a collar in silent offering.</p><p>He's picked the soft one: black leather, cushioned with thick blue velvet, carefully crafted so the buckle never touches his skin. He'd blushed, all the way to his belly, when she'd returned from Abyss with it in hand, had gone even redder when she'd answered his question about what it cost, still thinking himself undeserving. Yet he'd accepted it with a grateful heart, touched it with disbelieving fingers as she settled it into place about the proud line of his throat.</p><p>Good. There are times, after endless council meetings or a noble's insult, that Byleth and the snarling beast within prefer the stricter posture collar, its short leash, the implicit roughness, but today she wants to gentle him, ease him back into his body. </p><p>Dimitri, thankfully, seems to want the same thing. He's set aside their harsher toys - the dulled blade, the clamps, the small coiled whip - in favor of plugs, a hairbrush, silken scarves from Almyra. She can work with these.</p><p>"Collar, please."</p><p>Dimitri offers the collar to her, and she takes it with one hand, the other curling beneath his chin to tilt his face upwards. He meets her gaze without flinch or shame, and yes, that deserves a reward. She draws her fingertip over his stubble, up along his sharp cheekbone, to curl about a lock of hair and tuck it behind his ear, smiling faintly as he leans into her hand, huffs a sigh.</p><p>While Byleth unbuckles the collar, she holds his gaze. "Tell me where you are."</p><p>He blinks, licks his lips, and shifts on his knees, brow drawing together. "In our tent, with you." His tone is hesitant, confused, as if he speaks to more listeners than her, and his gaze drifts away, fixes on an empty corner of the tent. Who knows what he sees in the dust motes swirling in the sunlight?</p><p>She flicks her fingers against his cheekbone, not hard enough to slap, too sharp for a caress, and he jerks, returns his attention to her. He doesn't apologize - remembers that training, how she'd made clear that she would tell him when he had done something worthy of penance - but refocuses, his gaze sharper now.</p><p>"Tell me how you feel." While he thinks - she prefers he take his time, truly consider his answer - she wraps the collar about his throat, then buckles it shut, tucking her finger beneath to test the fit. He swallows, warm skin shivering against her knuckle, and then says, voice vibrating against the back of her finger,</p><p>"Heavy. Dull." He blinks again, some of the strain in his muscles easing, when she slips her finger out from beneath the collar, settles her thumb beneath his eye to stroke the thin skin there before cupping his dear face, worn and weary. He turns into her hand, and his words whisper across her palm,</p><p>"Not," and he hesitates, "here. In my body."</p><p>That gets her stooping to press a kiss between his brows, gets him leaning into her with a hum as she combs his hair with her fingers. She straightens and hooks her finger through the metal loop at the front of his collar. "Understood." No need to ask for more information: he would try his best to answer, but all it would do is remind him of his illness, stir up the old feelings of not deserving her love. </p><p>Like this, it's her place to tell him what he deserves, to bring him back into his skin, and the power and the privilege of it all leaves her breathless.</p><p>She tugs at his collar, and he sways forward into her hold without throwing out a hand to stop her, the faith on his face enough to move mountains. She slips her other hand beneath the strap of his eyepatch, waiting a heartbeat for any complaint, before pulling it off and setting it aside for safekeeping without looking away, unflinching as the scarred hollow of his empty eyesocket comes into view. He belongs to her, in all his guises, king and lover, broken and whole, and she knows every scar on his body.</p><p>"Tell me if you know you're safe." The last question, before he surrenders himself entirely to her care and keeping, trusting her to command him for their good. </p><p>Dimitri leans forward to kiss the side of her wrist, then says, low and painfully honest,</p><p>"I'm safe with you."</p><p>She lets go of his collar, frames his face in her hands, and kisses him: slow, thorough, setting the pattern for him to follow. He's clumsy as he almost never is, a heartbeat behind her, but it's expected when the voices swarm this near. He keeps his hands on his knees, clenched into fists. His beard scrapes at her palms, and the faint gasp he lets go as she draws back has her smiling.</p><p>"Good boy."</p><p>He doesn't believe her, not yet. No matter. She has time.</p><p>Byleth steps around him, fingers trailing on the warm spread of his shoulders, to sit down on the creaking cot where she’s spread a towel. It's not as sturdy as their bed in Fhirdiad, with its cunningly hidden iron rings, but she's adaptable, she'll make this work. </p><p>"Give me what you picked out."</p><p>Shuffling on his knees, he turns to face her, picking up with shaking hands the toys he chose and handing them over. She takes them without comment, setting them aside; only the plugs make her arch a brow. Dimitri rarely asks for them. The hairbrush, fine lacquered wood and wide-spaced bristles, has her tilting her head, reaching out to make him meet her gaze.</p><p>"Did you want me to brush your hair or spank you?"</p><p>The first hint of a blush spreads across his cheeks, and Byleth grins inside; she'll make that blush cover every part of his beloved form before they're done. She drags her gaze down his chest, the thick swirls of blond hair there, follows the trail over the hard plain of his belly, to his cock: still mostly soft, but again, not unexpected. He'll be hard soon enough.</p><p>"Both, please," he manages, shifting, shoulders starting to hunch.</p><p>Before he can curl into himself, get overwhelmed, she drags the pillows down from the head of the cot and places them on either side of her - he's heavy, dense with muscle - and then pats her thigh.</p><p>"Over my lap, then."</p><p>He rises from his knees like some great beast, every movement purposeful, and climbs up onto the cot to settle across her lap and the pillows. It’s the work of a few moments to get everything adjusted how she likes, her hand slipping beneath him to grasp his cock and angle it between her thighs, his hips propped in a good position.</p><p>To her left, Dimitri's turned his head, pressed his cheek against the cot. Too damnably tall for her to stroke his cheek or lean over and kiss him, but that's alright. She picks up one of the diaphanous Almyran scarves and drops it into one of his outstretched hands.</p><p>"Hands on the back of your neck. Hold onto the scarf, and don't break it."</p><p>His biceps and the muscles of his shoulders flex as he obeys, fingers wrapping around the scarf. The darker blond hair on the scarred backs of his hands, his knuckles, mingles with the blue of the silk, and she loves him, has always loved him, how he hands everything he is into her care.</p><p>Byleth rests her right hand on the solid curve of his ass, warm and solid, soft with downy hair, and he shifts, closing his eye, fingers tightening on cloth.</p><p>"Count for me. If you miss one, we start over. Nod if you understand."</p><p>His motion is slight, but there.</p><p>"Good boy." She trails her hand down his crease to curl it lightly about his half-hard cock, draw his foreskin back with a gentle thumb, watching him shift, blow out a breath, and lets him go. "Come as many times as you can."</p><p>Her first spank is testing, more sound than contact, and he bears it well: doesn't whirl with teeth bared. Good, the voices haven't drawn him into being unable to accept any touch. That happens rarely, but it does happen, and she feels so helpless then.</p><p>A brief silence, then, "One," he says, voice steady, brow drawn, and she pets the small of his back in confirmation before pressing her left hand flat there: I've got you, you're good, stay. The other hand she raises, brings down onto his right cheek. She keeps her pace steady, the intensity slow in ramping up: partly for Dimitri's sake, partly so she has more time to watch in greedy delight how his fair skin goes white, then pink, each slap working its way up his spine in a rippling wave of leaping muscles, ending in the clench of his hands and a recitation of the number. Time to stroke the sensitized skin to watch him shiver, the long line of his body drawing tight, breaths hitching as she turns her hand to trace her blunt fingernails over the raised lines left behind. Still not much of a reaction, not what she's looking for, what he needs.</p><p>The surface warmed up, pink and hot beneath her touch, she strikes at the curves between cheek and thigh, and that gets a low whimper, his brow furrowed, eye clenched shut, hips jerking away from the impact, then back into it. </p><p>"Twenty-nine, thirty," he breathes, low, and then stiffens, trembling, against her when she slips her left hand down to hold him open, one thigh tensing, drawing up. "Byleth-"</p><p>"Shh," she murmurs, pressing her right hand into his crack, and dips her index finger carefully, gently, against his hole: pink, tight, fluttering sweetly to catch at her fingertip when she presses, just a bit. "Let me."</p><p>She adores this part of him, and it's taken so long for him to overcome the reluctance Faerghus bred into him, the instinctive shame at letting her have him there. Her cunt pulses, trousers dampening, mouth dry with need: how touching him there gets him shaking; how he opens to her mouth, her fingers, her strap, with helpless hitching gasps; how he blushes like a maiden when she fucks him, and comes too soon, shocked, shuddering.</p><p>"Hold still," she breathes, vicious delight rising in her at this, the king of Fodlan so bared before her, letting her gather every bit of him into her treasury. </p><p>He swallows, freezes like a rabbit before the wolf, his open mouth, his cheeks, red and wet and vulnerable. He licks his lips, and she wants to bite.</p><p>She lifts two fingers and slaps them down across his hole, and he manages a breathy, "Thirty-one," before she speeds up, her fingers near a blur across where he's trembling, tender, flinching, hot and red beneath her touch. </p><p>He counts, his voice going thick and wet, and when she glances up his body his hands work the scarf between them, white-knuckled. His eye's screwed shut, his cheek streaked with sweat, and his hips shudder against her, cock bumping damp against the inside of her thigh. His back, his thighs, even his toes - all of him tenses, muscles standing out in sharp relief, hewn like marble - </p><p>She wets her finger with lube, curls it into him where he's red and swollen and sensitive, and he howls. Dimitri bucks against the bar of her forearm across his back, arching his hips into the firm pressure of her forefinger as she finds his prostate and rubs it, pressing deep and holding there for him to fuck himself on. He's hot inside, wet, clenching on her, and his breathing stutters on a choked moan of her name, his cock jerking.</p><p>He comes, the fabric clinging to her skin, thrusts once, twice, and then melts into her, against her, all sprawling limbs and heavy muscle. His brow smooths out, the locks of hair fallen in front of his mouth twisting in the long sigh he lets go, and Byleth would kill for him without thought. Her vision swims with him, his beauty, the long golden plain of him bare to her, broken only by the black line of her collar.</p><p>The collar bobs as he swallows beneath it, shifting as she pulls her finger out, returns with two more to work him open further. Pink around the pale line of her fingers, the slick heat of him clinging to her as she works his prostate between thumb and fingers to milk him. "Gorgeous boy," she says, dropping her other hand to circle his cock and draw out the last of his orgasm from him. He's stiff in her grip, dripping, and he gives in with heartbreaking grace, shuddering and breathing tiny cracked gasps, his skin slick with sweat where she touches him. Come spills from him into her palm, puddles in the scant space between her thighs.</p><p>She stops when his moans edge into whimpers and eases her fingers out of him, parting them once on the way out to see the wet red flash of him, the jolt of his hips, before she reaches for the soap and damp cloth beside the bed to clean her hands. A quick scrub, and she tosses it aside, reaching up the bed and straining her shoulders to thumb at Dimitri's lower lip. </p><p>He purses his lips and presses a clumsy kiss to the tip of her thumb, and she would die for the faint line of blue between the golden fans of his lashes, the thin white scars littering his neck. All of him hers, willingly given.</p><p>"That was exactly what I wanted. Thank you." It's taken work for her to be comfortable expressing her adoration verbally, to understand how much he needs her to speak when they do this. She strokes the ridge of his spine, rests her hand between his shoulderblades to feel the thunder of his heart. "You were so good, letting me have you." She's always been more comfortable with action, with feelings borne out by deeds, but Dimitri, like this, needs more from her, and she would never deny him. </p><p>Even when he curls his tongue out to draw her thumb into his hot mouth and suckles at it, sending a hot bolt of pleasure straight to her cunt. A smile tugs at her mouth, and she turns her hand, presses the pad of her thumb to his tongue.</p><p>"That's lovely, and thank you, but my back's starting to hurt." Then, when his eye flies open and he shifts to rise, "No, don't get up. Stay there." He goes limp against her, mumbles faint question when she reaches up to tug the scarf from his hands. </p><p>"Wriggle your fingers. Any pain?"</p><p>"No," he says, the sound soft, a little slurred at the edges. "My shoulders are a bit stiff." </p><p>"Thank you for telling me," she says, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a smile. She reaches up to grasp his wrists, brings each arm down slowly, staring at him to make sure he doesn't twitch or betray any discomfort. The only pain she wants him to feel is what she chooses.</p><p>"How are you feeling?"</p><p>His eye drifts shut, and his fingers tangle with hers in silent plea. Like this, he's tactile, searching for contact, and so she rubs her thumb over the back of his hand, strokes her other hand over the downy backs of his thighs, the fading marks she left there.</p><p>"Better, but..." Dimitri trails off, brow wrinkling again, and the peace starts to slip from his face.</p><p>"Not all the way?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Byleth scratches at his ass, and his hips rise up into the touch, chasing sensation. "Hold yourself open for me."</p><p>Dimitri's breath hitches. His fingers tighten on hers. He peers up at her, his eye black between his lashes, and he sucks in a greedy breath when she holds up the thick glass plug he'd chosen.</p><p>"I'm going to fuck you open with this, spank you with a brush until you cry, and if you're good, you'll get to kiss my cunt. Open yourself."</p><p>His hands practically fly to obey her. </p><p>“Good.” Byleth pours oil into her cupped palm, slicks the plug up, the filthy sounds making Dimitri shudder, and sets her free hand at the small of Dimitri’s back. “Hold still.”</p><p>This is her favorite plug to use on him: heavy enough he can’t forget about it, with a pronounced ridge that presses into his prostate and stays there, keeping him hard. Her nipples and cunt still tingle with the memory of the time she’d made him clench around it until he came without touching his cock.</p><p>His fingers go white-knuckled where they hold himself open and his shoulders flush red as she rocks the tip into him. Her blood pounds in her ears, nearly drowning out his shuddering moans, as his hole opens about the plug. Savoring every shiver, she pushes it deeper until he stretches, white and trembling, about its widest point, and he cries out her name, hips canting back against the plug.</p><p>“Shh, my good boy.” She pulls it out until just the tip is in him, and his sob is heartbroken, bereft. “You want it in?”</p><p>“Please,” he manages, quivering. Beads of sweat roll down his spine. His expression is one of utter pleading, abject devotion; whatever voices he’d been hearing have no claim on him any longer, he is hers through and through.</p><p>Her heart pounding, the crotch of her trousers soaked, she thrusts it back into him, pausing as his rim stretches about the widest part, pulsing it back and forth in short, sharp jerks, watching his toes dig into the cot, his face screw up in bliss near to agony, the noise of it sloppy.</p><p>Then, as he gasps another plea, she slides it home and twists it so the ridge presses directly against his prostate. He goes taut, all of him clenching about the plug, and lets go of his ass, one hand groping for hers.</p><p>She catches it, twines their fingers together, squeezes to ground him. “How does that feel?”</p><p>“So full,” Dimitri says, voice a mere breath. He’s mesmerizing to watch like this: the roll and flex of his muscular back as he tests the plug, the red of his lips where he’s bitten them, the animal whine in his voice when he finds an angle he likes. Like this, open and vulnerable and trusting, all defenses stripped away, he’s utterly hers, and the power sparks a frantic need in her.</p><p>“Good?”</p><p>He nods, drags her hand up to kiss her knuckles. “So good.” His voice is lazy, the vowels rounded with pleasure, hitching when he clenches about the plug. “More, please.”</p><p>“Of course.” Byleth scoops up the brush, lays its back against his rear where the pink marks of the earlier spanking have faded. “Ready?”</p><p>“Yes, please,” and how is he so good? She extricates her hand from his grip, braces her forearm across his back. If he drops too far, forgets himself, he can manage to squirm right off her lap and onto the floor, and she’d rather he stay pinned. A glance at his face: he’s hazy, floating on the edges of whatever blissful place he discovers through this, his eye half-shut, his breathing slow and even. Good; she’ll have to let him linger there.</p><p>“Don’t count.”</p><p>He murmurs affirmation and lets his hands fall to the cot, curl into the sheets.</p><p>The first slap with the brush drives him against her thigh, punches a deep groan out of his throat. Another glance; he’s panting against the sheets, his hands clenched, but no open discomfort. Good. She continues, raining blows, viciously possessive of how he shakes against her, the wet tip of his cock kissing her thigh, the way he sobs for breath, until her bicep and wrist burn. </p><p>Dimitri is still lean with youth and exertion, doesn't carry a lot of fat on him, so there isn't much to soften the blows. Marks bloom in deep red lozenges across his ass, the backs of his thighs, shading darker blue at the center where he'll bruise. One of his hands curls into the side of her trousers, but when she glances at him, he's biting his lip, isn't giving her the signal, so she continues. Every slap gets a reaction: a hiss, a shudder, a sobbing moan when the pain makes him tighten about the plug, his cock jolting against her.</p><p>A nudge with the hairbrush gets him to open his legs, expose the pale tender insides of his thighs. He trembles when she lays the brush flat against the inside of one, so she tightens her grip on his back. </p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>He swallows. His brow creases, his eyelashes clumped with sweat and the beginnings of tears. </p><p>"Please."</p><p>Byleth is forever awed by his belief in her. She bends, kisses the bumps of his spine, and breathes, "Lovely boy. My treasure." Goosebumps rise in the wake of her breath.</p><p>Four more slaps, two to each thigh, loud in the dim silence of the tent, and he sobs, leans into her as the pain washes through him, a tidal wave rippling out from the point of impact in muscles stringing tight, toes and fingers curling into anchors. A few more softer spanks on his cheeks, the inside of his cheeks so the impact shakes him around the plug, and she flips the brush, uses the bristles to scratch faint white lines over where she's left him red and welted from the small of his back to the backs of his thighs.</p><p>Then, Dimitri performs the trick that awes her every time, no matter how many times she sees it: some mystical alchemy that transforms pain to pleasure. He stops twisting, arching away from the brush, and surrenders to her. She has no better way to describe it, no word for it: how all the tension flows out from him with his breath, leaving him to melt against her and the pillows, heavy and limp, the only hard part of him his cock, nudging hopefully against her. His expression eases into something ecstatic. His breaths fall even, hitching only as she hooks her fingers around the plug and rocks it within him, the only sound a faint murmur of her name.</p><p>Still no tears, and she'd promised him that, promised to give him a space to lay his burdens down.</p><p>She traces her fingers along him, presses at his perineum to take in his helpless shiver and moan when she rolls his prostate between her and the glass plug, then cups his testicles in her palm: warm, heavy, soft with pale blond hair, drawn against his body.</p><p>"Byleth," he manages, more breath than sound, his hips canting against her. His moan is a rumbling, cracked thing when she pets her thumb over him, rolls him between her fingers, handling him with delicate care.</p><p>"Here?" she asks, all of her bent towards him, all of her senses devouring everything he could give her, searching for any flinch or hint of fear. Nothing about him is taken for granted.</p><p>He wets his lips. "Yes, please."</p><p>Byleth draws in a deep breath, manages to keep her hand from closing too tight about him. The dragon in her wants to consume him, this golden precious man with his trusting vulnerability, spirit him away to some high peak and drape him in furs and silks, keep him only ever for her to adore in turn. </p><p>"Steady, then," she says. She's breathless, dizzy, humbled before him, the unwavering belief he places in her. </p><p>She hefts his testicles in her palm and flattens her hand, then presses the back of the brush to his testicles. A glance at his face finds him beatific, mouth slightly open, his eye closed, lashes fanning over the dark hollow beneath his eye. Unstinting faith in the pliancy of his body, the easy rise and fall of his breath.</p><p>She lifts the brush, brings it down across his balls - starts soft, steady, the sound slowly increasing in volume as she speeds up. The vibrations reverberate through Dimitri, into her, and when she turns toward him, his breaths have turned to pants. Sweat beads at his hairline, rolls down the line of his nose.</p><p>He holds, just like she asks, but the tension's coiling within him. His hands curl ever tighter in the sheets, the thick sheets of muscle along his spine coiling with each spank. The cot shakes as his hips drive against her. His back arches, his hands fist in the sheets, fabric tearing, and then-</p><p>He gasps a curse, the sound wrenched from deep within the bellows of his chest, and shudders out another orgasm, only a few hot drops spattering between them, and it's all she can do to keep him from shaking right off the bed. Another thrust, all of him tense beneath the inside of her forearm, and he falls against her, limp, and chokes out a sob. </p><p>Byleth lets go of his testicles, sets aside the brush, and twists, best as she can, to face him. Straining, she reaches up to card her fingers through his sweat-dark hair, sweeping it behind his ear to expose Dimitri's face: red, his eye clenched shut, tears trickling in a steady stream through bronze lashes, down his cheek to dot the sheets. So passionate, her love, and so kind, even when all the world has tried to stamp it out of him.</p><p>She strokes his hair, humming tunelessly, and rests the other hand between the broad expanse of his shoulders while he weeps in great hitching sobs, all of him slack and surrendered, trusting her to guard him from the outside world. It's a charge and weight she bears gladly. To say nothing of his physical weight, which has left her thighs tingling, her toes a bit numb, but she won't rush him; it's so rare for him to let his walls fall this far, and he needs it so badly. He's warm and solid beneath her hands, one of the greatest warriors Fodlan has ever produced, and yet these moments, when he is naked and trusting and hers, are the ones she finds him bravest.</p><p>At last, he breathes in, exhales it on a long sigh, and opens his eye to peer up at her through lashes fringed with tears.</p><p>"Beloved."</p><p>She smiles down at him, her chest aglow, and turns her hand to run the backs of her fingers down the salt-stained plain of his cheek. "My good boy."</p><p>He shifts, blinks when his cock nudges against her sensitive cunt and she stiffens, hissing between her teeth. Another slow blink, dawning realization, and he says, all low warmth,</p><p>"Was I good enough?"</p><p>She presses her thumb to his lips before he can start to fret. "Always. On your knees, if you're not too sore."</p><p>He nips at her thumb before pushing himself up, easing himself off the bed and down to the carpet, and Byleth watches the play of muscle in his back and thighs shamelessly, biting her lip at the flash of his plug in the low light. </p><p>Dimitri settles onto his knees before her with a hiss as his ass meets his feet and blinks up at her, his eye wide and ink-black. "Please, may I?" His voice is hoarse, raw with longing, and when she reaches out to run her hand along the stubbled line of his jaw, he turns to kiss her palm in silent devotion.</p><p>Byleth wrestles her blouse off herself with her other hand and tosses it aside, and Dimitri's throat clicks with a swallow as he gazes at her, her tits, the expression she's trying to keep stern but is no doubt soft with adoration. The cool air of the tent draws her nipples into tight, aching buds, and she thumbs over one, her back arching, as she says,</p><p>"May you what, Dimitri?"</p><p>Down this far, there's no artifice to him, no shame; he licks his lips and says without a blush, "May I kiss your cunt?"</p><p>Oh, her love. "Yes. Undress me."</p><p>As he leans forward, curls his fingers in her waistband, she grabs one of his hands, lifts it to her mouth to kiss-</p><p>He flinches, makes an abortive move to tug it from her grip, and she pauses, flicks her gaze up from his scarred knuckles. His eye is fixed to her lips, hovering above his skin, and in this state, his unhappiness is written clear across every inch of his face, his hunched shoulders.</p><p>"Dimitri?"</p><p>He meets her gaze, his generous mouth twisted in chilly discomfort. </p><p>"Do you not want me to kiss your hands?" It's one of her favorite things to do, his hands one of her favorite parts of his body, and he's never asked her not to before.</p><p>A flush of humiliation rises on his cheeks, but he manages a nod. </p><p>She lays his hand back down and studies his face. “Can you tell me why?”</p><p>His warm, rough fingertips stroke absently at the bare skin above her waistband, but he keeps his eye on her when he says, “I did terrible things with them today.” </p><p>Ah. No doubt the voices thronging about him had their say. Byleth lifts her hips from the cot as he tugs the trousers off her and folds them, careful as ever, and then sits forward to cup his jaw with one hand, hook the other finger in the loop of his collar. She summons the words, says, careful, a little slow,</p><p>“If you truly wish me not to kiss you there, then I will not.” His throat works beneath the sides of her palms, and before he can speak, she goes on, “But your hands bring me such pleasure, and they have done so many good things in this world. It seems a shame to value the actions of one battle, a battle fought to protect others, over all else you’ve done.” She sits back, releasing him, and raises a brow.</p><p>His lips twitch. “I will… think on it.”</p><p>“Good.” She leans back on a few pillows, pushes her ass down to the edge of the cot, and watches in silent delight as ravenous need washes across his face, his gaze fixed to the apex of her closed legs. His chest heaves as she parts her thighs, their insides gleaming with slick, and trails one hand down, pushing her fingers between her folds, slick and hot and pink. Her hips leap into the touch, her clit hard and pulsing, so long denied, and Dimitri sighs as though she’s stroking his cock.</p><p>“Come here.”</p><p>He shuffles forward on his knees, lets her drape her legs over the warm breadth of his shoulders, cross her ankles over his back. His breath sighs warm and damp over her, and hitches when she dips a finger inside herself to wet it. Then she reaches out, finger glistening in the light, and paints herself across his bite-swollen lips until they gleam, red and whorish, and his nostrils flare with the scent of her. </p><p>“Go on.”</p><p>His tongue swipes across his lips, draws her into him, and his moan vibrates in the scant air between them. “I want to lick up every drop of you, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>She answers by twining her hands in his hair and pulling him into her. He comes like a grateful supplicant and opens his mouth against her like a beast. His biceps flex as he wraps his arms about her legs, holds her, and he licks her open with long filthy laps of his tongue, wet and hot and too good, that leave her grasping his hair on a sob, arching her hips into his greedy mouth.</p><p>Dimitri’s too damn good at this, loves it the same way she loves fucking him with the strap; he’s come just thinking about it, has fucked himself to climax while she rides his face. When he doesn’t wear his collar, he’s viciously patient, can spend hours eating her out until his cheeks and beard glisten and the bed is soaked.</p><p>Now, he’s obedient, responds to every hitch in her breath and shift of her body. He’s slow, careful, curls his tongue within her as if he can scoop her arousal into him, and her skin prickles against the sheets, sweat slicking her skin where it touches him. He laps her up, draws her folds into his mouth and suckles.</p><p>“Ah, Dimitri-” her hands flex in his hair at his answering hum, and he’s so gorgeous, her lion, his bright eye peering up the length of her body, his strong hands stroking her legs where he bears them up. She cups her tits, rubs her thumbs across her nipples, and throws her head back, moaning, body arching with the surge of pleasure. “Your fingers, now. Make me come.”</p><p>He lets go of one of her legs, and replaces his tongue with two thick fingers, curling them deep, his moan when she clenches on them muffled in her cunt. He twists his fingers, hooks them upward, and strokes them hard and slow against her, fucking her with unerring precision as she gulps for breath. Her thighs shudder and quake where they’re draped over his shoulders, her belly drawing tight at the intensity of his gaze, his red and furrowed brow.</p><p>“Yes, good boy,” she gasps as he curls his tongue about her clit, sinks his mouth over her, and sucks, the tip of his tongue lashing at the spot she likes best. His fingers curl, beckoning, pushing at her, the pressure ratcheting higher and higher in the cradle of her hips, and the sound is filthy and wet and delicious. Her hair’s in her face, damp with sweat, and her eyes burn, the blood pounding in her ears. Her climax is there, so close, and then Dimitri sucks harder, curls his fingers in silent demand, and-</p><p>The pressure breaks, and she arches, shuddering, her hands knotted in Dimitri’s hair. She comes across his face with a hoarse cry, her knees tight against his collar, and he works her through it with tender devotion, his tongue wet, soft, his eye closed in bliss. Good, as always.</p><p>Byleth collapses back against the cot and the pillows, her chest heaving and all of her quivering. “Enough,” she manages, tugging Dimitri away, then up. </p><p>He obeys with a pleased grin, his face slick and shining, and opens to her kiss with a grateful sigh. </p><p>“Good,” Byleth murmurs against his lips, combing her fingers through where she’s tangled his hair. “My treasure, how I adore you,” and at that, he tucks his glowing face between her breasts, and lets her encompass him.</p>
<hr/><p>The tent is full of the sound of water rippling and splashing as Byleth packs the collar, the plug, and the scarves away in their box, then locks it, placing the key and its necklace back around her neck. The camp staff, both efficient and discreet, had left several buckets of steaming water outside the tent for them to bathe. She had gone first, wiped herself clean briskly, then left Dimitri to bathe while she changed the sheets and straightened up.</p><p>A sudden silence has her turning, hairbrush in hand, to find Dimitri - who is really too big for the washtub - with his knees drawn to his chest, his cheek propped upon one arm laid across his knees. He draws meaningless circles and lines in the soap bubbles with the other hand, and the calm absorption on his face is beauty itself.</p><p>“Almost done?” Byleth hooks a stool with her foot and carries it to the tub, settling down beside him. “I may have one more fire spell in me if the water’s getting cold.”</p><p>“I’m done,” Dimitri says, voice soft and worn, peaceful. He captures her hand where it rests on her knee, kisses her knuckles, and the sheer sweetness of him brings a smile to her face. “Thank you, beloved.”</p><p>“Always,” Byleth says, starting to dry his hair with a fluffy, sun-warmed towel. He relaxes into it with a sigh, and lets her dry the straight line of his nose, the scars over his missing eye, with perfect trust. A comfortable silence unfurls between them as Byleth brushes his hair, the motion slow, meditative, working the tangles out with careful strokes. </p><p>“Loose or tied back?” </p><p>Dimitri, still hazy, merely looks at her with open adoration, lips half-parted, and so she kisses the tip of his nose, huffing a laugh when he wrinkles it at her. </p><p>“Ready, then?” She offers her arm for him to clamber out of the tub, and then dries his beloved body with gentle hands, thumbing the worst of the marks she’s left behind. “Do you want a vulnerary or a spell?”</p><p>He sighs at her touch, then shakes his head. “No, thank you.” </p><p>Helpless with her love, the scratch of his voice, the lazy peace she put there, she takes his hand, huge and worn and lovely, and lifts it to her lips, and he allows it.</p><p>“Your hands are no dirtier than mine, my treasure,” she whispers across the ridges of his knuckles, holding his gaze. “And as you love me, so I love you.”</p><p>Dimitri blinks, swallows hard, and his eye shines as she kisses each swollen and scarred knuckle, then draws him to the cot. He sinks as though through water, slow and graceless, and lets her curl around him as best she can, drape her arm over his side and entangle their fingers, tuck her knee between his thighs, and kiss the top of his shoulder where his skin is warm and unmarred.</p><p>Outside the tent, the sun has sunk towards the horizon, and the light within is gilded and warm with the onset of evening. </p><p>“Byleth,” Dimitri murmurs, and his heart beats love against her hand, “how I love you.”</p><p>Byleth presses teeth to the bare unmarred back of his neck, where he will wear no collar but what he wishes. There is a dragon in her, and her hoard is this man, her home and her heart enclosed within the circle of her body. She would burn the world to keep him safe, and her voice trembles with it when she says,</p><p>“How I love you, my king.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from Hozier's 'Better Love.' Comments, kudos, bookmarks, and criticism are adored. I reply to all comments, though it may take me a bit. Check out my social media info <a href="https://brightlyburning.carrd.co/">here</a> if you'd like, or talk to me on Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/carthageburning">here</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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